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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053950">The Last of Us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/the0dyssey/pseuds/the0dyssey'>the0dyssey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Awesome Howling Commandos, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gay Steve Rogers, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Queer Culture, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Time Skips, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053950</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/the0dyssey/pseuds/the0dyssey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky were meant to be together forever, from kicking up dirt as little kids in Brooklyn, to renting an apartment above a secret gay bar together and befriending a cast of interesting men, to even going to war together. They always said they'd be together until the end of the line, and by some sort of twisted luck, their line is still going.</p><p>A seemingly forbidden love story told in three parts, across three periods in time: peace, war, and recovery.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>114</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Peace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifiromance/gifts">scifiromance</a>.</li>



    </ul><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is dedicated to my amazing and thoughtful beta reader scifiromance!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>July —1934</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky swings hard into the bag. He can feel it through his gloves and his knuckles are going to be chaffed and bruised tomorrow, but he needs the burning feeling to cut through the anger he’s feeling. Damn his father.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s got you all riled up? Steve asks. He’s still hunched over sitting on the side of the empty boxing ring. His sketchbook is propped up in his hand and he’s sketching Bucky in a familiar pose — with a pensive look on his face and a taped hand extended out in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t wanna talk about it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay Buck.” Steve closes the cover to his book and sits expectantly in Bucky’s direction.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky knows what he’s doing. He knows that Steve knows that if he sits patiently and unbothered for long enough, that Bucky will spill whatever’s on his mind. So instead of playing into Steve’s small hands, Bucky turns his back and attacks the punching bag from the other side, biting back the bitter memories from the night before.</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <em>“James, you should come down to the docks with me tomorrow mornin’. I can show ya around an introduce ya to the guys.” George takes another swig of his beer.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I can’t Pa, I got plans at the gym already. Gotta train for the match. I got my championship to defend.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Gettin’ some hits in with Robbie or Ray?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Nah, just hitting with a bag. Steve’ll be there though.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>George scoffs. “You should get some other friends an’ stop hangin’ out with that crumb.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Steve’s not a crumb, Pa.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You know, people are startin’ talkin’. All the guys at work already think that Rogers boy is a queer, so what do ya think they’ll say when they figure out you two are tearin’ up the town together?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Let ‘em talk then.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>George didn’t like that response. He gets so close to Bucky that he can smell the alcohol thick on his breath and grips the back of his neck in a way that sends shivers of fear down Bucky’s spine. “You’re seventeen boy. You need to get a real job after boxin’ and look after a woman, and ya can’t do that from home.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I know, Pa.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Then act like it.” He pushes Bucky forward with force.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky’s neck is still sore in the vague shape of a hand, but what’s even more pressing are the two holes he feels burning through his skin and bone from one slim blond.</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Bucky sighs. He strips the gloves from his hands as he steps away from the bag. “It’s just my Pa again. He’s on my damn nerves about <em>bein’ a man</em>. And he wanted me to come by the docks to start a job there but I don’t wanna be like him and work the shipyards til I’m old and miserable.”</p><p> </p><p>“Probably doesn’t help that I’m around either,” Steve says. He’s not at all bitter about it. Instead, he’s resigned to Bucky’s father’s constant disapproval.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” Bucky continues, peeling the tape from between his fingers. Just touching the underside of the tape is killing the adhesive — he’s shining with the sweat of unbridled rage. Also, this is the first break he’s taken from boxing in over an hour.</p><p> </p><p>Both boys glance around the gym. The midday sun is shining through the hard-water-stained glass of the gym’s parrett windows, and they’re alone. Bucky slings his arm around Steve’s shoulder and plants a kiss on his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“You need a shower.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah I know, punk.”</p><p> </p><p>Outside, Steve and Bucky are walking a calculated space apart. The streets are bustling with pedestrians and cab cars, and though Brooklyn was home, it wasn’t always welcoming. Steve often finds himself on the other side of fists belonging to guys twice his size, so Bucky always walks him home.</p><p> </p><p>Are ulterior motives at play on Bucky’s part? Most definitely. <em> </em></p><p> </p><p>Does Steve mind? Definitely not.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>August — 1934</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“It ain’t much kid. Just the sittin’ room, one bedroom, the kitchen an’ the bathroom.” The landlord says. He’s young — just barely touching thirty — and Bucky wonders how he came to own property like this. The bar downstairs is one thing, but both living spaces above it too? It’s unheard of in this economy.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky shrugs, hands still deep in his pockets. “I like it. How much again?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be four-eighty for the whole year.”</p><p> </p><p>He blows out a puff of air. “You can’t do any better? It’s still a bit outta my range.”</p><p> </p><p>The guy looks him up and down. “How old are ya kid?”</p><p> </p><p>“Seventeen.”</p><p> </p><p>“You look old enough to serve drinks. You know your way around a bar?”</p><p> </p><p>“Imma quick study,” Bucky says.</p><p> </p><p>“I run a bar downstairs. I can go down to four hundred a year and get ya a quarter an hour if you put in some time for me every so often, discreetly.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky wipes his hands on the outside of his pants. “That would be aces, Sir! I’ll take it.”</p><p> </p><p>The man shakes Bucky’s hand, then hands him a single silver key. Before heading out, the man turns back. “My name’s Freddie.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bucky.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good to meet ya. If you wanted to, you could come on down tonight. I gotta few people you should meet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, alright.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if ya ever need anythin’, my partner and I live across the hall.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddie closes the door behind him and Bucky looks around the apartment. His apartment. It’s quaint, and has potential. It’s also furnished, which is a plus. All he needs to do is drag out some clothes out of his parents’ place and drag Steve out of his apartment and it would be a home.</p><p> </p><p>He paces around the room and watches time go by. He wonders what Steve’s up to, and busies himself by running his fingertips along the countertops until the sun sets.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually he wanders downstairs and to the back of the building where he knows the bar is. Deep and hearty laughter is carrying out into the hallway, and the closer he gets to where he knows the bar is, the louder it gets. He’s timid as he pushes the door open to the darkened space, illuminated only by the windows bringing in soft light from outside and a few dull-bulbed lamps around the space.</p><p> </p><p>The voices and laughter hush when the four men take notice of Bucky.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Bucky,” Freddie emerges from the huddle. “Guys, this is Bucky. Bucky, this is Gene, Henry, and Daniel.” He gestures around the circle.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky notices the almost defensive stance Daniel has taken, and how his hand is curled around the back of Freddie’s shirt, holding him close. Despite his nerves, he gives a small wave.</p><p> </p><p>“This is the guy I’m lettin’ the flat to upstairs,” Freddie explains, placing a hand on Daniel’s chest, who relaxes at that, but is still standing nearly plastered at Freddie’s side. “He’s gonna help out a bit too down ‘ere.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s an odd group they’ve got standing around: Bucky, the seventeen year old baby-faced chap; Freddie, lean and curly haired guy with thick lensed glasses; Daniel, tall and stoic with a thin scar that’s broken through his right eyebrow; Gene, who probably has some inkling of Asian heritage, down to his jet black and gelled back hair and rounded facial features; and Henry, who almost looks akin to Bucky, with darker features softened by blue eyes.</p><p> </p><p>There’s an air of understanding about the men — it’s simple and unspoken, but safe. They settle around a table near the back of the bar.</p><p> </p><p>“I heard Jimmie’s place got raided.” Gene says solemnly.</p><p> </p><p>“Damn,” Henry shakes his head, an Italian accent light on his tongue. “How’s he holdin’ up?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s pretty shaken. The copper was threatenin’ him with charges and for no good reason.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know the reason, Gene,” Daniel says. “They don’ like men like us.”</p><p> </p><p>They sit in the quiet for a moment more.</p><p> </p><p>“So, Bucky, where ya from?” Freddie asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Prospect Heights.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, so we gotta rich boy?” Daniel cocks his eyebrow, waiting for a response.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not livin’ off my parent’s money.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did they kick you out for bein’ queer?” Gene suggests.</p><p> </p><p>“They don’t know.” Bucky admits. “My dad doesn’t like my best guy though. Thinks he’s the other way and doesn’t want me around him. And my Ma and sister just think we’re friends.”</p><p> </p><p>The group chuckles. “Naff’s are such funny people,” Henry adds.</p><p> </p><p>“So, your best guy?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Bucky beams. “His name’s Steve. We met in grade school and ‘ave been friends ever since. He’s gonna move in with me — well, after I tell him. It’s a surprise.”</p><p> </p><p>“After you get settled, bring him down an’ introduce him to us,” Gene says, and the group agrees.</p><p> </p><p>Off in the distance, the church bells chime to signal the passing of another hour.</p><p> </p><p>“Well fellas, that’s my cue.” Daniel stands up from the table. “Me and the guys got a gig at Rudy’s Jazz Club tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>He grabs his fedora off the coat rack in back and his saxophone case off the floor. Bucky watches as Freddie meets him by the door, and can hear touches of their conversation.</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <em>“Be careful tonight.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Always am.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Freddie reaches up and feels over the scar on Daniel’s brow, then pulls him in for a chaste kiss against the solid wood of the door. There’s a blush of happiness crawling over Bucky’s cheeks — he never would’ve imagined being in a place where he felt free to be his true self. He can’t wait to bring Steve here.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Buck, where are we goin’?” Steve’s walking in front of Bucky, whose hands are pressed over Steve’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a surprise, punk! Oh, watch here, there’s a step.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s gotta be an easier way to do this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, wait.” Bucky unbuttons his short sleeve shirt, twists it, and ties it around Steve’s head. It’s warm enough that Bucky’s fine in his singlet and jeans. He reaches down for Steve’s hand and pulls him into the back entrance of the building.</p><p> </p><p>“Buck! Be careful!” Steve tries to pull his hand away.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay Stevie, it’s safe here. There’s just some stairs, but we can go slow so you don’t have a fit.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Steve relaxes, then follows Bucky’s lead one step at a time. The wooden stairs creak with each step up, and it makes Bucky’s heart swell with pride. This is their space. He still can’t believe he stumbled upon this real estate — a ten minute walk from the Manhattan Bridge, having an actual washing machine downstairs, and a decent apartment to boot.</p><p> </p><p>Once they arrive at the slim landing at the top of the stairs, Bucky thrusts a small key into Steve’s hand, then pulls the shirt off from around his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on now, open it,” Bucky says, egging Steve on as he smooths out the wrinkle from his shirt and stuffs his arms through the sleeves.</p><p> </p><p>Steve slides the key into the lock skeptically, then twists the knob, opening the space.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are we, Buck?”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky bounces in front of Steve with a big grin plastered on his face. “What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>“Still doesn’t answer my question.” Steve steps over the threshold and looks around.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s ours!” Bucky says.</p><p> </p><p>“Ours?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ours. I rented it out for the year, and I’m going to be workin’ downstairs to start savin’ for next year’s rent too.”</p><p> </p><p>“But where’d you get the money?” Steve’s voice is laced with concern.</p><p> </p><p>“It was my boxin’ money from the Y.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aw Buck, you should’a saved that.”</p><p> </p><p>“What, for school? We both know I’m gonna be workin’ until the day I croak. You’re the one who’s gonna go to art school, and now we have a place of our own for you to study and draw and for me to come home to at the end of the day.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve looks around again, then walks over to Bucky and wraps his boney arms around his middle, nesting his head under Bucky’s chin.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe this is ours.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, and holds him close — their two hearts beating in rhythm.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>March — 1935</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Did you all hear about what’s been happenin’ in Harlem?” Daniel asks. The six are gathered around a back table. The lights in the bar are dimmed low and the door’s locked. It’s a Monday night, and it costs more to have the place open than it’s worth, so the men gather in what feels like secret.</p><p> </p><p>“It ain’t fair,” Steve says.</p><p> </p><p>“We got lucky, bein’ here and knowin’ each other at the same time.” Bucky says.</p><p> </p><p>“Speakin’ of knowin’ each other,” Freddie gets up from the table and goes behind the bar. “Somebody here turned a ripe old eighteen last week and didn’t tell anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky looks down towards the table.</p><p> </p><p>“So we oughta celebrate.” Freddie returns with a short glass that’s half way full with an ember liquid and sets it down right in front of Bucky.</p><p> </p><p>“I ain’t twenty-one yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but you’re more mature than half the gents that stumble on in here on a good day.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky eyes the glass, then picks it up and knocks it back. The bourbon is bitter up front, but melts into a vanilla and sends warmth all the way down to Bucky’s toes. Everyone reaches around to clap Bucky on the back, celebrating another year where they’re all on the right ride of the ground.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>September — 1939</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“How’s it goin’ Freddie?” Bucky asks as he steps inside.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a war on, did you hear?”</p><p> </p><p>“No shittin’?” Bucky approaches the bar. Freddie’s got his radio turned low, but they can both still hear the repeated broadcast.</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <em>“Adolf Hitler has invaded Poland from their western front. France and Britain have declared war on Germany. Folks, it seems as though a second world war is brewing.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>“Maybe it’ll take a war to turn this economy around. How’s Steve doin’?” Freddie asks, taking notice of the pharmacy package in Bucky’s hand.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky sighs. “The weather change is makin’ his lungs rattle worse than I’ve ever heard. I’m scared for him.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll pull through. He always does.” Freddie places a bracing hand on Bucky’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Bucky skips every other step to get up to their apartment, but once he’s inside, it’s quiet. Their shared bed is empty, but the bathroom door is ajar and he can see Steve’s feet in the open doorway.</p><p> </p><p>“Stevie?” Bucky carefully pushes the door open. Steve’s sitting shirtless with his back up against the wall, stuck in a fugue state of lethargy. “Bud, what are you doin’ in here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Was tryin’ to take a shower.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, let’s get you back to bed.” Bucky hooks his arm under Steve’s knees and cradles his back. “Come on Stevie, you gotta work with me.”</p><p> </p><p>He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and lets him carry him bridal style back to bed.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotcha somethin’ new at the pharmacy that might help.” Bucky says, pulling the blanket over Steve’s shoulders. “It’s a new kinda medicine, called a <em>lozenge</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sounds fancy,” Steve murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky unwraps the red drop and holds it out. “You’re just supposed to suck on it.”</p><p> </p><p>Even in his daze, Steve giggles.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nothin’” Steve says.</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh, the mind you have,” Bucky replies, finally catching on as Steve takes the lozenge from him. “What am I going to do with you Steven Grant Rogers?” He curls around Steve, resting his hand on Steve’s side. He can feel Steve’s lungs fighting for every breath.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll just have to deal with me forever,” Steve mumbles, relaxing into Bucky’s touch.</p><p> </p><p>“Til the end of the line.” Bucky says.</p><p> </p><p>“Til the end of the line.” Echoes Steve.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October — 1942</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Freddie, I needa talk with you.” Bucky says, practically cornering him behind the bar. The other men are shootin’ the shit around their usual table, creating enough noise that he and Freddie can speak freely without being overheard.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah Buck, what is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky pulls a folded card stock letter from his jacket pocket.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no,” Freddie sighs as he reads it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>ORDER TO REPORT FOR INDUCTION</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>To,</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <em> JamesBuchananBarnes</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>GREETING</em>
  </b>
  <em>:</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Having submitted yourself to a local board composed of your neighbors for the purpose of determining your availability for training and services in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the</em>
  <em>ARMY </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I need you to do me a favor.” Bucky says. “I need you to watch out for Steve for me. This should be enough to cover the apartment for the next three years for Steve. I don’ want him worryin’ about rent.” He tries to hand Freddie an envelope thick with cash.</p><p> </p><p>“No, you save that money. I won’ evict him or charge him. We’re family.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a god send Freddie, I’m tellin’ you, and I need to ask you for one more thing. You can’t tell Steve that I was drafted.”</p><p> </p><p>“Buck—”</p><p> </p><p>“Freddie, listen, please. You can’t. He’s spent years wantin’ to join up and they won’t take him. Who am I to complain about gettin’ to do the one thing he wants to? I’m sittin’ down with Stevie tonight and tellin’ him I enlisted.”</p><p> </p><p>Freddie’s just looking at him, an expression of both sadness and concern painted over his features.</p><p> </p><p>“Promise me you won’ say nothin’, Freddie.”</p><p> </p><p>“How long do you have?”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky looks down at his conscription notice again. He has it memorized from top to bottom, yet he looks again, hoping to find a <em>just kidding! </em>scrawled along the bottom. It doesn’t appear.</p><p> </p><p>“I got a week. I’ll be gone til the start of December, and by then I’ll probably have my orders and’ll be shoved to the front. I’ll be lucky if I get a whole night in Brooklyn before I ship out, by the way the war’s goin’.”</p><p> </p><p>A sad stream of air escapes Freddie’s lips before he commits to taking Bucky’s draft-sized secret to the grave. “You gotta promise me somethin’ then.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“You give those Nazi bastards hell.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. War</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"And if we should die tonight<br/>Then we should all die together<br/>Raise a glass of wine for the last time<br/>Calling out father oh<br/>Prepare as we will<br/>Watch the flames burn on and on the mountain side<br/>Desolation comes upon the sky."</p><p>I see fire -- Ed Sheehan</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This picks up during the events of Captain America: The First Avenger</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>November —1943</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky dreams about home all the time now. It’s the only thing he thinks of, day in and day out. There’s a very short list of things he wouldn’t do, just to walk through the front of Freddie’s bar again and trample up the stairs to Steve in their apartment.</p><p> </p><p>He’s thought about what he would do when he got home in the train car on the way to training. The routine is simple, but it’s perfect. It’s what he wishes his life would be like.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>32557038</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Freddie, how’s it been goin’?” He would ask.</p><p> </p><p>They would chat, and Freddie would pour him a drink on the house — one that Bucky would take in one swift sip because his best guy is waiting upstairs. He’ll leave his bag by the bar — it’ll be a quiet Monday when he comes home, so the bar will be empty — and on his way up the stairs, he’ll take off his military cap and tuck it into his back pocket.</p><p> </p><p>Even after his years of nagging Freddie to get the top step fixed, it’ll still creak under his clean boots. Bucky will knock three times on their front door since he left his key behind, and a moment later, Steve’ll open the front door.</p><p> </p><p>Steve.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>32557038</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s head will still fit perfectly in the crook between Bucky’s chest and chin. He can almost feel Steve’s arms wrapping around him now, ready to lead him from the hell his life has been reduced to.</p><p> </p><p>No. It’s not Steve. It’s the straps of the table holding him down as a drip of Hydra generated chemicals flood his system. He’s given up on trying to decide if he’s hot or cold. The difference between cold sweats and actually being overheated is all trivial now.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the warmth of home that Bucky misses the most. Shared baths. A shared bed. Hugs. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a friendly touch.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>32557038</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s got to be dreaming now. Maybe he’s close to death. That’s a comforting thought.</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s there, and he looks fuller in the face. Less gaunt. Strong jawed.</p><p> </p><p>It’s got to be a dream.</p><p> </p><p>“Bucky — oh my god.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky’s moving now. Being shaken, more like. The straps that have been digging into his arms and legs and across his stomach for days are gone.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Who’s there—” Bucky musters.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s me. It’s Steve.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky smiles. He’s gone. That’s the only explanation. Memories are flooding back: boxing at the gym, renting an apartment, chasing down drinks at Freddie’s, going to sleep with his best friend tucked against his side. “Steve.” He remembers fondly.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s being pulled upright. It’s almost too fast, and the room is spinning a bit, but he holds onto Steve for support. Steve.</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s really there. Bucky can feel him, his one hand up against his neck and the other bracing his side. He’s a lot bigger — just as tall as Bucky and has a bit more muscle. His eyes are the same shade of cornflower blue and his smile is just as it had been since their teenage years.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were dead,” Steve says, relief flooding his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were smaller.”</p><p> </p><p>He can hear gunfire from halls away as his senses become less fuzzy around the edges. They have to move, but Bucky knows his legs are about as useful as gelatin. Steve’s practically holding him up as they stumble out of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to you?”</p><p> </p><p>“I joined the army!”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>
  
</p><p>Colonel Phillips sent Bucky and the other four-hundred some men to be checked out by the field doctors and nurses. It was a long wait for them to give him the all clear. The blood that had trickled from the inside of his ear seemed to have come from nowhere, and the shiner under his eye was already mostly gone.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a miracle Sarge,” the dame who’s looking him over says.</p><p> </p><p>“It sure is.” His knee is bouncing in anticipation to leave the infirmary.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you’re all good to go. You have a good night sir.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks doll.”</p><p> </p><p>She smiles, and pulls back the curtain to the outside.</p><p>
  
</p><p>It’s dusk now in Italy, and Bucky catches sight of Steve sitting on the make shift stage in the center of camp. Workers are taking down banners with Steve’s face on it.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Bucky says quietly as he approaches. Steve looks up, and his expression melts into one of contentment. The camp is still too busy for them to get the reunion they both want and deserve. Bucky sits to Steve’s left. Their fingertips brush briefly.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you here? I thought for sure I was dreamin’ back there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Project Rebirth. That night we were at the Exposition, and I went into the recruitment center, I met a Doctor workin’ with the army. He did this,” Steve gestures to himself. “And I got to meet Howard Stark too. You’ll probably get to meet him too. You get to go wherever I go, pal. Til the end of the line.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky sighs and rests his head on Steve’s shoulder — propriety be damned. “I’m exhausted.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wanna turn in?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think I even have a bunk anymore. They probably gave it to some other poor son of a bitch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Steve says. “I may have bribed the guy who’s bunk was next to mine with my ration of cigarettes so he’d move, so you may have a bunk right next to mine. Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Steve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Love you too.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December — 1943</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“See, I told you they were all idiots,” Bucky says, holding his drink. It’s the first time he’s sat at a bar since being at Freddie’s, and homesickness strikes him again. Five drinks in and he’s still feeling as sober as he was the day he was born.He figures that the booze in England is straight rubbish.</p><p> </p><p>“What about you? You ready to follow <em>Captain America </em>into the jaws of death?” Steve asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Hell no,” Bucky chuckles. “That little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb to run away from a fight? I’m followin’ him.” He looks down into his drink, blinking the welling tears from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s hand finds its way to Bucky’s thigh under the cover of the counter top, and it takes every bit of his strength to not break down. Instead, he knocks back the rest of his drink until his eyes fall on one of Steve’s old tour posters.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re keeping the uniform right?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not exactly regulation.”</p><p> </p><p>They sit at the bar for another moment, listening to the drunken men singing the Drunkard’s Song.</p><p> </p><p>“You remember when Rudy Vallee came to the club on fifty-fourth street back in thirty-six, and we hid out in that alley until the owner whipped us all the way back to Freddie’s?” Bucky asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and I ended up having a fit after running those few blocks?”</p><p> </p><p>“I had to carry you half way home!” Bucky laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“You did not!”</p><p> </p><p>The two let their hearty laughter ring out, until they realized the entirety of The Whip and Fiddle fell silent. Agent Carter had arrived in a form fitting red dress that called the attention of every pair of eyes in the bar. She’s making a bee-line for Steve, who lets his hand creep back up to the counter from where it was previously resting.</p><p> </p><p>“Captain.” She addresses him, deep brown eyes combing him up and down as he stands.</p><p> </p><p>“Agent Carter.” Steve offers a curt nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am.” Bucky contributes respectfully, however Peggy’s eyes never leave Steve. A flame of jealousy stirs within Bucky. He’s never had competition before — no dame ever gave his Steve a second glance, and it was in his humble opinion that they were missing out — and he doesn’t like it. Steve’s never talked about the way he feels about women; it had always been the two of them since the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky’s watching the situation fold out in front of him: they’re both flagrantly flirting in front of him, not so much with words than with glances and quick upturns of lips, so when <em>Agent Carter </em>makes a remark about their buddies preparation for duty by drinking and dancing, Bucky is compelled to speak up.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like music?” He crosses his arms. Just as before, Peggy’s fixated on Steve.</p><p> </p><p>“I do,” she replies. “I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what are you waiting for?” Bucky asks, wanting nothing more than for her to go dancing with someone else, somewhere else.</p><p> </p><p>“The right partner.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky tightens his fist, leaving present shaped outlines on the palms of his hand. He’s never been this threatened before, even when he was on the front.</p><p> </p><p>“O-800, Captain,” she says before walking away.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><p>The two resume their seats at the bar.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” Bucky draws out.</p><p> </p><p>“As far as she knows, I’m single.” Steve says. “I feel bad leading her on, but what can I do?”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky sighs. “Drink. That’s what you can do.” He takes another swig from his glass.</p><p> </p><p>“Can’t get drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s unfortunate.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>July — 1944</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky thought New York summers were hot, but they were nothing compared to European summers. The Commandos have been hiking for days and Bucky isn’t quite sure where they are. The last he remembers is Dum-Dum announcing that they were twenty clicks away from the Maginot Line, which of course initiated the usual discourse over using the metric or imperial system of measurement:</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously, why can’t we just use miles?” Morita complains. “Falsworth and Dernier are the only Europeans among us.”</p><p> </p><p>“Look at the maps Morita,” Bucky sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I get it, we’re in France, Barnes, what’s your point?”</p><p> </p><p>“The map is in metric.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ohhh yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“We use miles too, Barnes,” Monty calls from the right flank.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky says shortly before turning back to Morita. “So roll up your flaps and see the chaplain*. We don’ got time for any more nonsense since we’re gettin’ close to that Hydra base.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aye-aye Sarge.” He half salutes and shuffles along.</p><p> </p><p>Steve catches up to Bucky, having swapped with Jones to watch the flank.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think we’re in the Forest <em>de Chaux</em>?” He asks softly.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re too far north.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky’s eyes are glazed with exhaustion, and set within dark circles. He’s been losing weight, but trying to hide it underneath the bulk of his uniform. It doesn’t make sense — he’s eating his entire ration, but he’s still hungry. That’s his new normal — being tired and hungry. Steve brought up applying for more rations, but that couldn’t be done until after this mission when they reached an ally occupied French village.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to set down for the night?” Steve asks him.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“Dugan,” Steve calls to the front line. “What’s the time?”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re at 21:42, Captain.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s find a place to make camp for the night.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Half an hour later, the Commandos are putting the finishing touches on their camp. Steve drags his sleeping pack over next to Bucky — closer than it had ever been before.</p><p> </p><p>“What’re you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m layin’ next to my best guy.”</p><p> </p><p>Bucky hums, dazed ever so slightly by the humidity in the air and the weight of his eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>“Come ‘ere.” Steve reaches around Bucky’s midsection and pulls them together — his chest against Bucky’s back.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky sobers quickly. “Stevie, what about the other guys? You know they’ll say something.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’ care. Let ‘em talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“But Steve, we could get a dishonorable discharge and catch the boot back to Brooklyn.” Bucky says quietly, concern weaving it’s way into his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.” Steve says, burying his nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck. “Besides, they aren’t gonna say nothin’.”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“Intuition.” He pauses. “I wish I had a piece of paper with me. Plain and without lines or grids or anythin’.”</p><p> </p><p>“What would you draw?” Bucky asks.</p><p> </p><p>“I would draw you. Or the forest. You in the forest. I’d draw you a thousand times over.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>January — 1945</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Bucky is feeling great. He and Steve are being slightly less cautious with their bits of affection around their team. Steve was right, the Howlies made light-hearted banter — <em>So, uh, who wears the panties in the relationship? </em>— but they never brought it before Col. Phillips, or Agent Carter.Of course, Peggy always struck a nerve of Bucky’s, but he’s moved on. Their entire two week break in London, Bucky distracted himself by drinking and eating and was able to fill out his uniform once again. Weirdly enough, he still couldn’t get drunk. <em>Damn British beer.</em></p><p> </p><p>The wintery air of the Swiss Alps is whipping the men around, but they’re not letting that distract them. Intel says Arnim Zola is on the train they’re about to board. Bucky has revenge on his mind. Ever since Zola strapped him down to that exam table, he hasn’t been the same.</p><p> </p><p>He peers over the edge of the cliff, letting his eyes follow the line they’re meant to zip down. “Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, and I threw up?”</p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t payback, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Steve’s lips fold up into a quick grin. “Now why would I do that?”</p><p> </p><p>“We were right,” Jones interrupts. “Doctor Zola’s on the train. Hydra dispatch gave ‘em permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he’s going, they must need him bad.”</p><p> </p><p>The group turns at the sound of a chugging engine. They can see a sleek black train charging along the tracks between the gaps in the mountains.</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s get going ‘cause they’re moving like the devil.” Falsworth says.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky notices the way Steve broadens his shoulders before he speaks before the group. “We’ve only got about a ten second window. You miss that window, and we’re bugs on a windshield.”</p><p> </p><p>They share a look of profound pride and love before they’re being clipped into the harness by Dernier.</p><p> </p><p>“Mind the gap,” Falsworth jokes.</p><p> </p><p>The train is getting closer, and they can feel the vibrations all the way up to their feet. “Better get moving, bugs!”</p><p> </p><p>“Maintenant!” Dernier shouts. Steve steps off the edge, gripping his handlebars and beginning his descent towards the train. Bucky follows, and Gabe is right behind. Snow is getting stuck in his eyelashes, and he does his best to blink them away as he lands on the top of the train.</p><p> </p><p>Balancing on the top of a train that’s pushing a hundred miles an hour was never on Bucky’s buck list, yet there he was, ready to follow Steve until the end. The three share one last look of understanding before leaving to take their positions. Gabe is heading towards the front of the train, and Bucky watches him go as he lowers himself down the ladder after Steve.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, he’d rather be on top of the train than inside it. Every creek of metal below their boots punctuates the uneasy silence. Bucky’s following close behind Steve, but not close enough. As he passes through between two cars, a door closes between them, leaving them on opposite sides.</p><p> </p><p>Bucky’s never liked shooting guns, but he’s a damn good shot, and he knows it. On either side of those doors, it's a fire fight, and he’s running out of bullets. In the final click of his revolver, Bucky leans back behind crates for cover. He hasn’t prayed since he was a little boy, forced to sit in the pew by his father’s rough hand, but he’s praying now. Just for a miracle. Anything. He doesn’t want to die here. He’s got a whole life to live. He even says please.</p><p> </p><p>Almost as if his plea for help had been answered, Steve opens the door between the cars and with a simple nod of his head, tosses his gun towards Bucky and runs forward towards the unite of shelves, aiming to spook the faceless goon into stepping out into the open where Bucky can take the shot.</p><p> </p><p>“I had him on the ropes,” Bucky says, walking off the last of the chills from down his spine.</p><p> </p><p>“I know you did.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a clatter behind them — the sound of a gun prepping to fire, and Steve grabs Bucky and throws him back behind him and the shield. “Get down!”</p><p> </p><p>The blast is concussive and knocks them both off their feet. Bucky’s pretty sure it blew a crater into the side of the train car since he can feel the abrasive wind on his cheeks once again. The shield is right in front of him, so he loops his arm half way through and raises his weapon to get a few shots off, but not before he’s blasted back and through the opening.</p><p> </p><p>He can barely hear Steve finishing the fight because he’s too focused on not letting go of the metal bar in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Bucky!” Steve shouts. He’s stepping out onto the warped wall, trying to inch his way closer. “Hang on!”</p><p> </p><p>The bar is loosening from it’s position, slowly moving down from Bucky’s weight.</p><p> </p><p>“Grab my hand!”</p><p> </p><p>But it’s too late.</p><p> </p><p>The final bolt tears away from the metal wall and Bucky drops.</p><p> </p><p>He can hear screaming, and half way down Bucky realizes that it’s his own. The last few seconds feel like an eternity, and he falls back into the languidly warm dream of arriving home to Freddie’s and seeing his Steve upstairs, and as he hits the ground below, he wishes he could’ve said <em>I love you </em>one more time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! Part three will be up in a few days, so I hope you enjoy :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Recovery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>June — 2014</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Chills are radiating down Steve’s back. He never thought he’d be back — but there he was, standing in front of the doorway of Walker’s Bar. Of course, it was one of the first things he looked up once he grasped what <em>Google </em>was, however, seeing it in person again was something else entirely.</p><p> </p><p>He had to come back. Especially after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, and after seeing <em>him.</em></p><p> </p><p>It hadn’t changed much in the eighty years since he’d lived in the upstairs apartment. Of course the neighborhood had changed with the times, however the bar front was the same. In the slim windows by the door there’s a rainbow pride flag, and that makes Steve smile.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Even the door knob is the same as he remembers, so he twists it and enters.</p><p> </p><p>It’s like walking into the past. There’s no one inside, but Steve doesn’t pay that any mind. He approaches the bar and traces the wood, running his fingers around the curved edges until he finds <em>it. </em>Back in ’43 before Bucky shipped out, the six of them carved their initials under the last seat at the bar top.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>F.J.W.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>D.T.L.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>G.C.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>H.F.R.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>J.B.B.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>S.G.R.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was them against the world. <em>Freddie, Daniel, Gene, Henry, Bucky, and Steve. </em>This is who he was — more than the tights and star spangled performance he’s been skipping through for the last few years.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, sorry sir, we’re not open for a few more hours.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve turns to meet the voice. It belongs to a young woman, who’s clad in ripped jeans and a boxy shirt with her hair in a low bun.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Oh my god.” She stands in place, not starstruck or scared, but relieved. “I wondered if you’d ever come back.”</p><p> </p><p>They stand there for another moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Gosh, where are my manners? I’m Anna by the way. Anna Romano.”</p><p> </p><p>“Steve Rogers.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, yeah,” she gestures back at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Romano?” He ponders at the familiar surname. “Any relation to Henry?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not by blood. It’s a small world in this sizable borough.” She laughs.</p><p> </p><p>Steve nods. He’s filled with both elation and despair — glad that some of his greatest friends got to live out their lives, but sad he couldn’t have been there along side them.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, Freddie never touched your place.”</p><p> </p><p>That got Steve’s attention.</p><p> </p><p>“He was seeing what happened to your childhood homes and he didn’t want it turned into a pop stand for folks to make a quick dollar. I only go up there every few weeks to dust.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I see it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course!” She steps around him and goes behind the bar, where she digs out a circle of keys. Anna pulls out a silver one that Steve recognizes all too well. She tips her head towards the door at the back of the bar. “Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>He follows her up the same stairs, and just like before, he’s winded once he reaches the top. Not because his lungs are failing, but because a swarm of emotions is hitting him all at once.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Where are we, Buck?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Bucky bounces in front of Steve with a big grin plastered on his face. “What do you think?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Still doesn’t answer my question.” Steve steps over the threshold and looks around.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“It’s ours!” Bucky says.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Ours?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Ours.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As the door opens, it’s just as he remembers it, preserved in time like a fossil in amber.</p><p> </p><p>Anna steps past the threshold first, having grown accustomed to letting herself in from time to time, however, it takes Steve a moment. The last time he passed through this door, he stood nearly a foot shorter and weighed a hundred pounds less. He was so excited to go to war — overeager and foolish.</p><p> </p><p>
  
  <em>“Freddie! They let me in!”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Who did what now?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“The army! I’m in!” Steve shoves his enlistment paper into Freddie’s hands.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“They mus’ be real desperate then,” Daniel says lightheartedly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Thanks Dan. But they gotta program or somethin’ for me. Somethin’ secret. I don’t even know.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Freddie and Daniel exchange a look.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Don’t tell Buck thought, I don’ want him woryin’ about me.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen-turn-sitting room, not at all remembering walking in.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?” Anna asks.</p><p> </p><p>Steve brings himself to nod. “It’s just a lot. I haven’t been here since forty-three.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s more, too,” Anna says timidly. She has a letter box in her hand that’s been bound closed by a piece of twine that’s circled around it four times. She hands it over to him, before stepping towards the door. “I’m going back downstairs, so take all the time you need. I’ve got a drink for you, when you’re ready.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Anna.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>She closes the door behind her, leaving Steve alone — a foreigner in a place he once called home.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t understand how, but the bedding is the same, albeit the blue and white pin-stripes have yellowed with age. He sits timidly on the edge of the bad, half expecting it to swallow him up as he removes the lid from the box.</p><p> </p><p>The first thing on top is an envelope addressed to Steve.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Steve —</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You’re the most stubborn guy I’ve ever met. I still have hope that you’re still out there somewhere, and not just another casualty of that damn war. It took too much from us.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I expect my time is coming. I’m an old man and my health has took a turn for the worse, and despite the medical miracles of the early 21st century, I don’t think there’s much more the Doc’s can do but keep me comfortable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, I suppose I should explain this box, incase you or some other sorry son of a bitch happen across it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is everything. Everything from the moment Buck left for the war. Freddie and I were saving it for you both when you came back, so we wouldn’t forget any details.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re the last of us. You’re going to live on in our memories until the end of eternity.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Until we meet again,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Daniel Lewis</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>November, 2004</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Underneath the envelope were several small leather bound notebooks, documents, newspaper clippings, and photographs. Steve swallows hard and blinks the tears away from the corner of his eyes. The first stack of newspaper clippings. Eulogies, upon closer inspection.</p><p> </p><p>Steve feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He really is the last of them. <em>Petty Officer Gene Carlton (PO2/E-5) — Killed in the Battle of Leyte Gulf, 1944.</em> <em>Sgt. James Barnes (E-5) — Killed in action, 1945. Henry Romano — Died of cancer, 1988. Freddie Walker — Died of natural causes, 1996. Daniel Lewis — Died of cancer, 2004. </em>Gene, the dock worker turn Navy man; Henry, the shameless flirt; Freddie, the comedian who always knew what kind of drink you needed; Daniel, the sincere and forthcoming musical prodigy — all of his friends, his chosen family, gone.</p><p> </p><p>His tears are freely falling down his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>He moves on to another stack of envelopes, bound by a similar twine to what held the box together. All of the envelopes had been previously opened, and were addressed to either Freddie or Daniel, from either Bucky or Gene. There was a separate bundle of four letters, all to Steve, from Bucky.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Stevie —</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Just landed in London yesterday…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>***</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Steve doesn’t know how long he was sitting there for, but just that the lighting in the room has dimmed due to the sun slipping behind the buildings. He’s gotten to the bottom of the box, and it was a lot. It felt like emerging from the ice again.</p><p> </p><p>He packs up the box and carries it downstairs. There are a few people in the bar, mostly sitting around the far tables and booths, so Steve settles at the far barstool in front of where he and his friends marked the countertop underneath.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you doing?” Anna comes over.</p><p> </p><p>Steve forces a smile. “I feel like the weight of what I missed these last seventy years finally settled in. I didn’t really realize it before, since I got thrown into stuff at S.H.I.E.L.D. and —”</p><p> </p><p>“And a literal alien invasion?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that. I never had time to process it all, so I jus’ pushed it down. Up until I saw him again and the whole mess with HYDRA.”</p><p> </p><p>Anna reaches under the counter for a bottle of rum — one whose brand name Steve recognizes. It’s the same kind Freddie used to serve him back in the day: sweet, and easy on the tongue. “I had a feeling you’d be coming by eventually. Especially after those files leaked.”</p><p> </p><p>She pours out a small glass for him, and to his skeptical glance, responds, “I know it won’t really have any effect, but for nostalgia’s sake.”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, and checks over his shoulder to make sure no one’s paying them any attention. “No one knows.” Steve says softly. “How we were back then, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’d be surprised at how well history’s been straight washed. As far as the majority of people know, you and Buck were just friends.”</p><p> </p><p>“Majority?” Steve knew that none of the Howlies let slip about his and Bucky’s relationship, so he wasn’t sure who else would’ve known, other than them and the four guys back in Brooklyn.</p><p> </p><p>“I guess it was a family secret. But growing up around photos of a young <em>Captain America </em>and Bucky Barnes among men who I knew played for the other team — it wasn’t a far leap. None of us were about to publish that though.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you grew up around here?” Steve asks before taking a sip.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s complicated, but Freddie’s something like my great uncle.”</p><p> </p><p>“And how are you related to Henry?” He asks, remembering how she introduced herself to him.</p><p> </p><p>Anna twists the pair of rings on her left finger. “Henry had an interest in women too, so one thing led to another and I married his grandson Charlie nearly two years ago. It’s funny,” she chuckles, reminiscing over old memories Steve wishes he could’ve been there for. “We grew up here together. We’re the only two — Freddie and Daniel never had kids, but they raised my Ma like she was their own — but him and I never considered each other like that. Not until college.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve nods. “I’m scared I’m never gonna get somethin’ like that,” he admits quietly. “Sorry, you probably don’t wanna hear my laments.”</p><p> </p><p>“Steve, I’m a bartender with a degree in fine arts that I’m not exactly using. I’ve had to listen to people crying over this counter about things I couldn’t care less about.” She reaches and takes hold of his empty hand. “You’re family.”</p><p> </p><p>His lips turn up into a smile, but one that’s masking tears. The whole situation is a lot, but he’s not about to have a complete breakdown in the middle of the place he used to call home. “It’s gotta mean somethin’ though, right? That after all this time, I’m still here, and he’s out there somewhere?”</p><p> </p><p>Her shoulders shrug, not wanting to suggest that everything would or wouldn’t work out. “I know you probably can’t disclose any of the specifics, but have you heard from him at all?”</p><p> </p><p>“He remembered me, when we fought. He’s still in there somewhere, under everything that happened to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen snippets of that,” she says. “Charlie’s a reporter — got first snag at the story. Our apartment walls are still covered in the translations of old Russian documents. It’s messed up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Buck’s the one that pulled me out of the Potomac. It was supposed to be him and I forever, ’til the end of the line, so I guess in some twisted fashion, it worked out.”</p><p> </p><p>Anna looks him in the eye, but her gaze is pulled away as the bell above the door rings, signaling the entrance of a pair of new customers. Steve can see her thinking.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I should get going.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stay in touch, will you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Steve replies. “We’re family.” It’s almost painful for him to say.</p><p> </p><p>Anna smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I keep this?” He gestures to the box.</p><p> </p><p>“Daniel made it for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>When he gets back to Manhattan, he evades the dining room on the top floor and opts to go straight to his suite, holding the box close to his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatcha got there?”</p><p> </p><p>Steve nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Natasha’s voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Nat!”</p><p> </p><p>“I saw you skip dinner and slip into the elevator. Definitely not suspicious.” She tucks a rogue strand of auburn hair behind her ear before crossing her arms and leaning up against the wall next to Steve’s door.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Nat narrows her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Stuff from Brooklyn. Where I used to live.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought they turned that place into a museum?”</p><p> </p><p>“That was my Ma’s place. This, this was somewhere else.”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. “Steve, we took down Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. together. You can trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I know,” he swipes his key card in front of his door and opens it, and with a tip of his head, welcomes Nat inside.</p><p> </p><p>“Geez Rogers, it’s a bit bare in here, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like you’ve decorated yours?” Steve asks defensively.</p><p> </p><p>“I’l have you know, I do have a nice crocheted blanket on my couch and a few books around. This is just sad.”</p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t really had the time.” He looks around the space. Nat’s right, it is depressingly empty. The only splash of color inside is his shield, which is propped up against the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“So, you wanted to talk?”</p><p> </p><p>And so Steve tells her about Brooklyn, and Walker’s Bar, and Anna. “I’m not straight, Nat.” He finally says.</p><p> </p><p>Her face remains neutral. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it?” Steve’s astonished by her reaction, or lack thereof.</p><p> </p><p>“I kinda already knew.”</p><p> </p><p>“How?” He’s suddenly worried.<em> Did anyone else know?</em></p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never kissed a guy who was as tense as you,” she laughs. “So I kinda figured something was up.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you judged my sexuality based on a surprise kiss that we had on an escalator, in a shopping mall, while Brock Rumlow was trailing us?”</p><p> </p><p>“Was I wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I guess not,” he concedes.</p><p> </p><p>“So what’s in there?” She looks towards the box he placed on the counter.</p><p> </p><p>He slides it towards her. “Memories.”</p><p> </p><p>She opens the lid. Steve forgot that he put the group photo of them — the same one who’s copy was framed and hanging behind the bar — on top. “So you and Barnes?” Nat asks, looking at the way Bucky’s arms fell comfortably around Steve’s shoulders in the picture.</p><p> </p><p>“Once upon a time.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pregnant moment of silence before she speaks again.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll find him, Steve.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just don’t tell anyone, please. I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“My lips are sealed. Thank you for trusting me.” Her eyes fall back to the photograph. She’s never seen Steve smile like that except for once — in the wartime reels. The common denominator? Bucky Barnes. “And whenever you’re ready, I’ll be by your side.”</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! </p><p>Come find me on twitter: https://twitter.com/margots0dyssey</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! I have the other two parts completed, so they will be posted in the following days.</p><p>Feel free to leave a comment, I love reading them! :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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